


To the Victor

by 0shadow_panther0, creamycat (0shadow_panther0)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (just a smidge), F/M, Femdom, Lovey-Dovey, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Sparring, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/creamycat
Summary: “Are you still busy today?” he asks, smiling.She shakes her head. “I have time to breathe, finally,” she says. “First time in awhile. Why?”Dimitri stands, offering his hand with a gallant flourish. “Why don’t we put your skills to the test, then? Just like old times.”The corner of her lip quirks up as she accepts. “‘Old times’ implies you’re expecting to lose.”(From A King's Journey's NSFW side zine, His Highness.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Kudos: 104





	To the Victor

**Author's Note:**

> I had the absolutely wonderful privilege of writing Dimileth smut for the Dimitri zine , which is shipping out now! (@dimitri_zine on Twitter for updates)  
> Happy birthday king...

“I think I might be getting soft,” Byleth muses to him one day, in a rare quiet moment over tea.

Dimitri glances up at her. “What makes you say that?”

She makes a face. “Haven’t been training. Seteth _hovers_.”

He restrains a snort at the mental image of the advisor chastising Byleth in her full archbishop regalia.

She nudges him with a foot under the table. “Don’t laugh. I bet you’re getting lazy, too, with all that paperwork.”

He does laugh then, feeling the tension seep out of him as Byleth breathes a soft snicker of her own.

“Are you still busy today?” he asks, still smiling.

She shakes her head. “I have time to breathe, finally,” she says. “First time in awhile. Why?”

Dimitri stands, offering his hand with a gallant flourish. “Why don’t we put your skills to the test, then? Just like old times.”

The corner of her lip quirks up as she accepts. “‘Old times’ implies you’re expecting to lose.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his grin, leading her out the gazebo and down the familiar path to the training grounds.

He pushes past the heavy doors. The grounds are empty— it’s not quite the season for the academy, thank the goddess— and they share a knowing glance.

In the next beat they’re stripping off their robes and formality until only the undermost layers remain. Byleth, he notes with no small measure of delight, still wears a simple black shirt with an angled cutout over her chest, the same as all those years ago. It complements the breadth of her shoulders and the corded muscle of her arms as she stretches.

He tosses her a practice sword when he thinks she’s distracted—she catches it, of course, without even looking—and picks out a lance for himself. The wood is surprisingly light after so many years of handling steel; he hasn’t used something like this since his schoolboy days.

His slides his feet out slightly past shoulder-width, holding the lance aloft, and watches as Byleth shifts into a ready stance of her own.

A silent nod, and they lunge for each other, weapons meeting with a sharp _crack_. His thrust skids off the edge of her sword as Byleth rushes into close range, and he leaps back before his lance becomes useless.

He aims a swipe at her ankles in a bid to throw her off balance, but she jumps nimbly over and pushes him back yet again, relentlessly advancing and forcing him to retreat in awkward circles around the arena.

For all her talk of “going soft,” she can still read his intentions as easily as she did when he was just a student. At the risk of hubris, he’s fairly certain that he should be stronger and faster, and at this point his experience rivals hers.

That doesn’t seem to matter to Byleth as she ducks underneath his horizontal sweep, punishing his overextension with the flat of her blade against his knuckles.

He flinches, grip loosening reflexively, and all at once she yanks the lance from his hands and tosses it aside.

She hooks her sword around his ankle and sends him toppling to the ground with a yelp, and then she’s following him down, bracing her knees on either side of his waist and pinning his hands over his head. She’s flushed, eyes bright with intensity and hair haloed by light—she looks something close to divine.

With her hovering over him like this, it’s easy to forget he looms over her by a head and a half—like his world has narrowed down to the glint of her eyes and the strands of pale hair that tickle his cheek.

Her mouth curls into a tiny half-smile. “Maybe I’m not the one who should be worrying about going soft,” she teases.

Dimtri almost pouts—but that would be undignified. Instead, he surges up, sealing his lips over hers.

In the corner of his mind, he has a plan—in that single moment when surprise overtakes her, when her grip loosens, he’ll turn the tables and flip them over, cock his head with a self-satisfied smirk—

Except she responds just as fiercely, kissing him back with blistering intent, and if anything the hands around his wrists _tighten_.

She makes a low, pleased sound and he goes pliant beneath her like her mouth has made him drunk, the fight draining out of him in an instant, and he shivers when she catches his lip with her teeth as she pulls away.

Byleth looks down at him, a smug tilt to her lips. “Was that supposed to be a distraction?”

Dimitri blinks, regaining some of his senses, and what little of his face not already flushed goes red with embarrassment. “...No,” he manages, several beats too late to save his dignity.

“Really?” she says, now looking thoroughly entertained. “Well, I supposed it wasn’t much of one, considering how… preoccupied you were.”

He swallows thickly, avoiding her eyes—rather obviously—and shifts awkwardly. “It has… been awhile.”

She laughs softly. “Let me offer you a remedial course, then.”

She switches her grip so she has both of his wrists pinned with one hand, dragging a calloused finger over the column of his throat. He lifts his chin up on instinct, his chest hitching as her nail scratches the delicate skin.

She ducks down, pressing a slow, languid kiss against his mouth, and Dimitri parts his lips without thinking. She nips teasingly against his bottom lip, her tongue soothing the ache.

“Keep your hands up,” she murmurs against him, and finally releases her hold. Obediently, he keeps his wrists crossed over his head— it’s the least he can do, considering she’d won their bout.

With both hands free, she pulls the bottom of his shirt up to his neck, ducking her head down to bite bruising marks across his chest, following the lines of his many scars with her tongue. Even though he’s flushed with exertion, her mouth feels blistering hot against his skin.

He clenches his jaw to hold back a moan as she catches his nipple in her teeth. The pressure around it tightens until it’s edged with pain, white-hot and cutting, and he keens, breathless.

Byleth laps at the reddened marks she’d left behind, almost apologetic if it weren’t for the self-satisfied gleam in her eyes.

“Beloved—” he manages, head falling back as she inches up to line a necklace of bruises along his collarbone.

“Good,” she purrs, a hand drifting down to idly finger the edge of his waistband. His muscles jump at the sensation ghosting down his stomach, the featherlight touch sending sparks arcing up his spine.

He balls his hands tightly, the sensation of his nails biting into his palms grounding him, if only slightly.

She makes one final mark against the base of his throat, dark and bruised against his pale skin, then rises to press a kiss against his mouth. Dimitri returns it eagerly, very nearly whining when she pulls away.

Byleth straightens, shifting back so she’s sitting across his hips. “You can touch now.”

His breath escapes him in a rush, hands snapping to her hips like she’d yanked a chain. His thumb rubs circles against the bare skin above her waistband.

Slowly, he slides a palm up her waist, across her rib cage, until he’s gently cupping a heavy breast in his hand.

“Soft,” Dimitri mumbles, half-dazed.

She huffs, dislodging his hand just long enough for her to pull her shirt over her head and toss it aside.

He squeezes reflexively, reveling in the warmth of her skin. His other hand trails up her stomach, flitting over firm muscle and the rough lines of scars. He recognizes some of them—a starburst of white below her ribs from an arrow, a pink line across her waist from a sword. She’s less reckless than he is— was— but she still bears the marks of her long years of mercenary work and struggles of war.

He reaches for her wrist and brings it to his mouth, pressing warm kisses to the calloused pads of her fingers.

“You’re beautiful, beloved,” he murmurs.

She smiles fondly down at him, running a thumb across his cheek, brushing the edge of his eyepatch. “As are you.”

Her expression turns sharper as she rocks back against the bulge in his breeches, startling a yelp from him. His hips jerk up reflexively, his eyes squeezing shut.

Byleth hums, grinding down on him, and Dimitri cants up to meet her. His hands drop down to her hips, smoothing over the leather of her shorts.

Her smile is small, but her eyes are twinkling. “Help me out of these.”

He fumbles for her shorts—it’s hard to slide them down her thighs while she’s straddling his hips like this—and manages to slip a leg through as she balances precariously on one knee before she kicks it off unceremoniously. Her tights are another beast entirely, and he blindly gropes at her hip, fingers twisting into the lace.

A sharp ripping sound makes them both freeze, and Dimitri stares blankly at the shreds of fabric in his hand.

He reddens. “Beloved, I’m so sorry—“ he stammers.

Byleth’s brow inches up. “Are you, now?” she says, hooking her fingers around the edge of the tear and tugging. The lace gives way easily, widening until the split spans from her hip down to the juncture of her thighs and—

Dimitri’s breath snags in his throat. She’s not wearing anything underneath, and when he finally wrenches his gaze away he catches her staring at him expectantly.

“You— you planned this all along, didn’t you?” he says accusingly, even as mouth waters like an overeager dog.

Her mouth curls into a tiny grin. “Perhaps,” she says.

She slides back to sit across his thighs to undo the laces of his breeches, pulling his trousers and smallclothes down in the same motion. Dimitri averts his gaze, cheeks hot, staring up at the sky as his cock bobs against his stomach, the scraps of her tights fluttering uselessly to the ground.

He feels more than hears the rumble of her pleased purr, her chest pressing against his as she steals another kiss, more tongue and teeth than lips.

“Well?” she asks lowly, with another pointed roll of her hips, and he bucks up before he can stop himself, gasping at the rasp of rough lace against his cock as he ruts against her thighs.

Red-faced, he flexes his hands against her hips, trying not to squirm. “Beloved— _please_.”

Byleth huffs a soft laugh, leaning back, and presses her hand against her slit. Her fingers come away glistening, and Dimitri swallows thickly.

“Please?” he tries again, and the smile she offers him is a little kinder, a little gentler. (Although, to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t mind terribly when she’s mean.)

“You’ve been very good,” she says like a promise. “I suppose you deserve something nice.”

Slowly, deliberately, Byleth slides two fingers into her slick opening, rocking against the heel of her hand with a tiny sigh.

Byleth shivers as she scissors her fingers, working herself open, her composure wavering slightly. Her other hand holds the base of his cock steady, the head pressed against the wet heat of her arousal. Her fingers slip out, and she braces her palm against his chest as she carefully lowers herself onto his cock.

He slides in with little resistance, Byleth making a heady, intoxicating sound as she sinks down on him. Dimitri wants to let his head fall back, let his eyes squeeze shut as his heels dig into the ground as he desperately tries not to thrust up into her, but he keeps his gaze pinned on where his cock slowly is disappearing into her.

“Patience,” she chides, faintly breathless, like she can see his struggles written on his face. She takes another inch, nails biting crescent moons into his chest. By the time she’s fully seated on him he’s trembling with restraint, tenser than a bow pulled to snapping.

She rolls her hips once, twice, slow and experimental, until she finds a rhythm that has him arching his back to meet her. His own movements feel sloppy and abrupt compared to her composure, but there are still signs that she’s becoming undone— the flush that creeps down her collar, the way her eyes flutter shut as she savors a particularly deep thrust.

Watching her like this makes him ravenous, the wild mess of her hair, the shift of her muscles as she rides him. He still wants _more_.

He pushes himself upright, drawing her close as she makes a tiny, startled noise.

Like this, he can’t thrust up into her, leaving the pace controlled entirely by Byleth, but it’s worth it for the way he can bury his face in the hair that spills over her shoulders, mouthing desperate kisses against her throat. He inhales deeply—he can smell the dust of the training grounds, the salty tang of sweat, and, beneath it all, the faintest hint of the chamomile they shared. He wishes he could taste her, he thinks hazily, have his every sense be engulfed. He could never have too much of her.

“ _Dimitri_ ,” she gasps, her fingers digging into his back.

He mouths her name against her skin, a stuttered moan escaping his throat as she snaps her hips against him. Her pace quickens, eager and hungry, and he bites his tongue to stave the wave of pleasure that threatens to pull him under.

“Beloved— _Byleth_ —!” He cuts with a groan, muffled against her shoulder, and her thighs clamp tight against him.

She shudders, clenching around his cock as she peaks with a soft cry of his name, and he follows her over the edge, whatever noise he makes lost to the rush in his head.

The arena is silent save for the matching cadence of their panting as they slowly come down from their high. Byleth rests her chin on his shoulder, pressed flush against him, like she’s soaking in the rapid thrum of his heartbeat.

Dimtri flops back onto the ground bonelessly, dragging Byleth down with him. She lands on his chest, cheek to cheek with him, his arms encircled around her.

“Good?” she asks, slow and sated, and he manages a weak nod, still catching his breath.

“It’s been… far too long.”

He feels her smile as she presses a kiss to his cheek. “We should find more free time, then,” she says teasingly, and he laughs in response, rubbing idle patterns against her back with his thumb. She shifts, twisting around to glance down at the remains of her tights. “Hm,” she says thoughtfully. “You left bruises.”

Dimitri sputters, craning his neck. Dark, hand-shaped marks are printed over her hips, from her waist to nearly her thighs, glaringly obvious against her pale skin. “I— Goddess, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Byleth huffs. “No,” she says. “I’m more concerned about what I’ll wear to my meeting with Seteth later.”

He’s not sure whether his face is trying to flush or go white, eyeing the shreds of lace scattered over the ground. “...I don’t suppose a modest dress will be an option?”

“I won’t have the time to change, I think,” she says mildly, sounding none too concerned about her predicament.

He hides his face in the crook of her shoulder, and she pats his cheek consolingly.

“Next time I’ll just tie you up,” she says, and he goes very, very red.


End file.
